


Still the World Pursues

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Belly Kink, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual, Rape, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: "Lavellan gets raped by a human male NPC with a full, round belly. Super extra shiny bonus point if there's a brief scene before the act takes place where the NPC stuffs himself with food or ale."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still the World Pursues

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for this prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=53774317#t53774317. Warnings for rape, misogynist language, and some violence at the end. Comments and kudos appreciated, as always (you can also feel free to leave prompts in the comments!) <3

 “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

A cheer tore through the tavern as Edgar Ramsay slammed his empty tankard down on the table and let out a triumphant roar. “Is that it, then, mate?” he demanded, gesturing across the table at the gaping soldier who had dared to challenge him. “Keep it coming!”

The soldier cleared his throat and shot one miserable glance at the pile of gold between them. “Maker, you're unstoppable, aren't you? Ah—somebody bring another drink and fill his plate. And really fill it this time!”

The serving girl responded swiftly, bringing forth one brimming mug of ale and one plate heaped high: Mashed potatoes invisible beneath congealed gravy, over-stewed vegetables, and the tavern's infamous mystery meat of the day. Ramsay dug in with his usual wild abandon, scooping up huge forkfuls of food, shoveling them into his face and barely pausing to chew—washing down big bites with huge swigs of ale, one after another. Almost before he started, he dropped his fork on a empty plate and let out a hearty belch. “Done!”

The men surrounding Ramsay whooped and laughed, but the solider gulped and dabbed at his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Ramsay had almost beaten his own record now; the bet was all but lost. “I didn't think you could manage it,” he admitted, managing a weak, humorless laugh. “It appears I was wrong.”

Ramsay chuckled and loosened his belt one more notch, rubbing the taut swell of his belly. “I told you, don't underestimate me. But you're not the first to make that mistake.”

He was right, but these days, few would be foolish enough to dare underestimate Edgar Ramsay—especially when it came to food. He was a big man, tall and broad with the muscles and scars to mark him as a formidable warrior, but his time as a young star off the Templar Order was long past. Stuck training recruits in this dump of a town, he'd turned to food to replace the pleasure he once took in abusing wayward mages, and he was no longer the slim young fighter he had been a decade ago. But if there was one thing he still took pride in, it was his unrivaled appetite, as his challenger was finding out. Wasn't a bad way to earn a few coins, he told himself, and at any rate, the tavern's food wasn't half-bad.

His stomach had started to show between the straining buttons of his tunic; it spilled over his belt now, stuffed full with seven hearty plates and more drinks than he could count before this. Every bite seemed to have gone straight to his stomach. He was glad he hadn't worn his armor tonight. He preferred his ratty old tunic, loved the smooth and easy way it slid over his swollen belly, loved the way it drew everyone's attention to the ripe swell of his stomach. Once, not long ago, he had been uncomfortable with the way repulsion and fascination mingled in people's eyes at the sight of his growing gut—but now he enjoyed meeting their gazes with a leer, daring them to stare just a bit longer.

“Well?” he asked, grinning at the soldier's obvious dismay. “Time for another round, innit? I've still got all that coin to win.”

Before the soldier could stammer out an answer, Ramsay was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. “Ser,” a recruit murmured, voice low enough for only Ramsay to hear, “there's a knife-ear just walked in. Might be an apostate, eh?”

Ramsay looked towards the door just in time to see a slender elf disappear into a back room, shutting the door behind her. The staff on her back was an easy give-away; the tight leather breeches instead of Circle robes only confirmed the recruit's suspicion. Ramsay licked his lips, one hand idly rubbing his belly. Normally he would send a recruit in to handle the situation; he might even let the mage off with a warning, if he was feeling particularly generous. But tonight, generosity was not in the cards. He had been drinking heavily for hours, just about ready to tip over from jovial to belligerent, and the sight of the scrawny little knife-ear was far too tempting. No, he decided, he would handle this one himself. It had been too long since he'd had the chance to break a mage himself.

“I'll be back,” he announced, belly brushing against the table as he heaved himself up from his chair. “Have a drink waiting.”

“Yes, Ser,” the recruit said. But Ramsay didn't hear; he was already halfway across the room, his unrelenting gaze trained on his target.

*

Lavellan shut the door behind her and slumped down against it, letting out a shaky breath. She'd been riding for hours all on her own, frantically trying to outpace her Venatori pursuers, and she felt like she'd never been wearier in her life. But at least there were still small comforts to be found: Leliana's contact outside had been kind enough, taking care of her horse and giving Lavellan the key to the private room. The others would be here soon—Solas and Varric and Cassandra and all the rest—but until then, she was desperate for a well-deserved rest.

She stepped away from the door, left unlatched in her weary daze, and began to strip off her armor. Her staff hit the bed first, followed by her gloves, light leather chestplate, and tunic. A sigh escaped her lips at the sweet sensation of the air brushing up against her almost-bare chest. Sera's borrowed armor had been too big and uncomfortable on her; she missed her familiar robes, but her advisors had insisted on a disguise. Not that it had done her any good so far—the ceaseless shouts of “Kill the Inquisitor!” from her pursuers had certainly proved that.

So preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn't hear the door open and shut behind her, didn't hear the padding footsteps of a man crossing the room—and by the time she finally heard him speak, it was too late: She was hit by the jolting bolt of a Templar's silencing curse, left straining and speechless.

“Well, well,” a male voice slurred, deep and clearly drunk, “look what we have here.”

His heavy hands on her shoulders spun her around roughly, and a cold shiver of fear ran through her at the sight. He was a massive boulder of a man, towering over her—arms as thick as her waist, hands so large she thought he could crush her with the slightest grip, and a huge, curving belly that made him look even bigger. Her head didn't quite reach his chest, and she could just barely lift up her gaze to glimpse his dirty blonde hair, week-old stubble, and wide, smug smirk.

“Silly little knife-ear, thought I wouldn't notice you,” he remarked. He shook his head and chuckled; the sound of his laughter only made panic coil in her belly. “But Edgar Ramsay never misses a mage. Now the only question is, what am I going to do with you?”

Lavellan wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in her throat, just like every last bit of magic that she longed to hurl against him. A deep ache had spread across her body with the silencing, numbing her, leaving her unable to lift a hand against him—even if she'd had the strength or training to hold her own against the Templar. There was nothing she could do but stand there, motionless but for the quaking fear that shook her. He laughed again, bitter proof that he recognized the terror in her eyes, and grinned a toothy grin.

“Wish you could speak? I bet. But we can't have that. Then you'll try and use your evil magic on me, bloody mage.” He took a step back, holding her at arm's length, and looked her up and down with hungry eyes. “And you know evil needs to be punished. So thoughtful of you to undress for me, eh?”

Tears of hot fury and unfathomable horror pricked at her eyes, a tremor of disgust and disbelief running down her spine. This had to be a nightmare, a terrible dream—it couldn't be real, it was too fast, too impossible, too awful, too—

But the sharp snap as he tore off her breastband was all too real, and another scream rose and died in her throat as one rough hand closed over her breast. She could see the tent of his loose pants as his cock strained upwards; all she could taste was bile, and all she could hear was the erratic racing of her own heart.

“Nice,” he grunted, squeezing her breast clumsily and nodding, “very nice, for such a little thing. That'll do. Now let's see what you've got under here.”

He pinned her arms to her waist with one hand and grappled at her breeches with another hand, finally working them off her ankles and tossing them aside to fall in a heap on the floor. At last, he set her down, completely bare before him, and once again trailed his lecherous gaze over her. She shivered, cold, naked, and racked with abject terror. It had to be a nightmare, it had to be a—

“You're a pretty little thing for a mage. We'll see if you're still so pretty once I'm done with you.” As he spoke, he undid his belt with one hand. It fell to the ground in a neat coil; his belly strained forward, no longer restrained by the belt, almost tearing past his tunic. His free hand slipped into his pants, and with one soft grunt, he tugged out his hard cock, hefting it in his hand and grinning at the disgust that darkened her gaze. “Like what you see? Come on, why don't you take a closer look?”

He knocked her to her knees with a hand on her shoulder; she could almost move now but not quite, her joints still numb and aching—only just pliant enough where he could push her to the ground, shove two fingers into her mouth to force open her jaw, and bump the tip of his cock against her open mouth, smearing a sloppy drop of pre-cum over her lips.

“Let's see if you can take me, knife-ear,” he grunted, a hand going to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her dark hair as he roughly tugged her forward.

His cock was huge, obscenely large, longer and thicker than she'd imagined even a human's would be, but she didn't have time to take in the sight; he shoved his cock into her mouth, guiding it with one hand and jerking her head forward with the other. She choked on the bitter taste of sweat and salt as he forced his way in deeper, one inch after another, until her jaw was slack and tears stained her cheeks. There was no way she could fight back like this, no way she could bite him—there was nothing she could do but crouch there, knees aching on the splintered floorboards, as he used her. Even now, as deep down her throat as he could manage, he was not entirely sheathed inside her—he was far too big, and her chest heaved with the effort of breathing around his thick shaft.

His head tipped back and he let out a rumble of a sigh as he slowly began to fuck her mouth, drawing out and then pushing his way back in, tugging unceremoniously on her hair as he forced her mouth up and down along the length of his cock.

“That's right,” he groaned, “just like that, you little slut. You fucking knife-ear whore, you filthy fucking mage. Too much of a good little whore to even fight me, is that it? You think that'll make it easier for you?” Another groan shook his body; he gasped and picked up the pace of his relentless, rough thrusting. “Well, it won't. You can play nice all you'd like but it's not going to keep me from splitting your _—unh—_ your pretty cunt wide open.”

No matter how hard she tried to drown out his words, desperate to occupy her tortured mind by running through a list of all the ways she would exact her revenge, the force of his curses still pounded against her. Her jaw ached; she couldn't breathe; he shook her like a rag doll with one massive hand, the immense weight of his swollen belly bumping against the top of her head with every thrust.

With one more grunt, he shoved her off of him. She landed sprawled across the floor, her mouth falling open in a hoarse gasp as she strained to gulp down air; yet even as she drew her first breath, his hot cum splattered across her face, filling her mouth and burning her eyes. His harsh laugh—shaky but as cruel as ever—echoed off the high rafters as he spent himself on her with long, jerking streams.

This time, she managed a choking sob, the only sound she could force past her raw throat. Her arms were still too numb to wipe his semen from her eyes; she could do nothing but sit there, his sticky seed dripping from her chin and her breasts, mingling with her red-hot tears.

Still blinded, she sent up a desperate prayer to any listening god— _let it be done, leave me here or let me die if I must but let it be done—_ but when at last she could see through her stinging eyes, the only sight that met her was her assailant tugging on his already-hardening cock, filthy leer plastered on his face.

“You didn't think it was over, did you?” He laughed. “Don't get your hopes up, mage. Your punishment is just starting.” He grunted and tugged at his tunic, pulling the buttons loose and letting it slide to the floor; his heavy belly bulged forth even further, freed from its final restraint, and he groaned as he rubbed his gut with his free hand. “That's better. More comfortable. Now I can focus on filling up your tight little cunt. What d'you think about that?”

She could no longer manage even a miserable moan. She was past shock, past grief—her thoughts had descended into one constant blur of curses: _I'll kill you, I'll destroy you, I'll tear your fucking heart out_. Her anger was the only thing that kept her heart beating; her fury was the last thing sustaining her, broken, battered, and bruised. It was easier to think about what she would do to him when she could speak again, easier to think about the way she would send him up in flames than it was to think about his rough hands on her shoulders as he picked her up and tossed her down on the hard bed.

“Be a good little mage and spread your legs for me,” he mocked, crawling on top of her. He gripped both her wrists in one hand, twisting them painfully as he pinned her hands above her head. His protruding belly chafed against her, hard and heavy, and with his free hand, he guided his cock between her splayed legs, forced wide by his knees.

“Ever been fucked by a human?” he wondered, his mocking tone now accompanied by a sneer. She tried her hardest to ignore him and stare at a stain at the ceiling, trying not to sob, but the fear in her eyes gave her away. A crude grin spread across his face. “Or are you a virgin? Is that it? A tight little untouched knife-ear cunt, and I get to be the one to rip it open. Just what you deserve, mage.”

He forced his way inside of her—slowly at first, sweat beading on his brow, grunting softly at the effort. She trembled beneath him, rigid with pain and disgust and ever-growing fear that he had been right, that he would tear her in two. His cock was half as long as her arm and twice as wide, surely too large to ever fit inside of her. He was too big, she thought, frantic fear mounting, he would never fit, he would kill her—

An agonized cry tore from her traitorous throat at a sudden jolt of pain and he paused. “What's the matter, whore? Want more? You know you need to be punished, is that it? You know you're a dirty fucking mage and you need to pay for what you've done?”

He laughed; she wanted to yell, but only a whimper made it past her dry lips. “I can make it happen,” he told her, voice a lascivious growl. “I can give you all the punishment you deserve.”

With one deep grunt and a sharp thrust of his hips, he began to furiously force his way into her, any semblance of hesitation long gone. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as pain washed over every inch of her, but even before the first burst of pain had faded, he thrust forward again, driving even further—and then once more, and then again, until her entire body was shaking with dry, heaving sobs, the pain too great to even weep, his cock fully sheathed inside of her. He was buried deep enough that every subtle shift sent a new wave of pain coursing through her, until at last the pain was so familiar that she could no longer feel anything but the throbbing ache of being completely stretched and filled. One last tremor ran through her and then she was still.

He groaned, overwhelmed at the sensation of her so tight around him, her slim body straining and trembling with the effort of holding him inside her. “I didn't think you could do it,” he breathed, “but look at you. You're loving it, aren't you, you slut? Let me show you what a man can do.”

She could no longer sob, no longer think, could barely breathe; she felt as if something inside of her had snapped with his final push into her, and now there was nothing left inside of her but a dark, unfamiliar emptiness. She closed her eyes and shuddered as he began to fuck her, fast and rough. His breathing grew heavier and heavier, and he sunk down on top of her, almost crushing her beneath him.

“Whore,” he gasped in between lewd, heavy grunts, “mage, filthy fucking knife-ear, this is what you deserve, this is what all you mages deserve. I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget.”

His hands tightened around her, squeezing her wrists and her waist so hard she thought he might break her, and he began to speed up. The shaky rhythm of his breathing filled the room, echoed by the slap of his hips against her and the soft, wild grunts that escaped his gaping mouth.

At last, he came, still inside of her. He collapsed on top of her, knocking the breath from her lungs, his whole body trembling with the force of his moans as he emptied himself into her. She knew she should scream, curse—but the empty hole inside of her was deep and dark and heavy, and it crushed the grief inside her into nothingness. Every time she thought he was done, there was one last hot spurt of his seed. Finally, he rolled to the side, pulling out from within her only to jam two fingers inside of her, fucking her slowly and painfully.

“There,” he groaned. “Your ripe little cunt stuffed full of my seed. Mayhaps I'll let you live, eh? And if I'm lucky, you can think of me when your little belly starts to swell with my child. How does that sound?” He withdrew his sticky fingers, forcing them into her mouth before she had time to let the weight of his question settle over her. “There you go, clean me up like a good little whore. Faster. I've got a drink waiting for me, I don't have all night.”

And then a red bloom spread across his chest, and he went limp.

*

Cullen saw Varric's bolt fly fast and true, saw it pierce the man's chest—but he staggered forward all the same, roaring blindly and swinging his sword. His blade met flesh as the man fell back with a strangled groan, a bolt protruding from his heart, blood bubbling past his lips. The sagging body hit the floor. Cullen lifted his arm again to strike—and then Cassandra caught him by the elbow, shouting a warning that barely reached his foggy mind.

“Cullen, hold your blade! He is dead!” And then an echo, gentler: “He is dead.”

Slowly, the red fury faded from Cullen's vision, replaced by a dawning horror—a different, softer pain, but one that threatened to consume him all the same. There she was. The Inquisitor. She moved slowly, as if she were in a dream, staggering up from the bed and swaying unsteadily when she at last made it to her feet.

She looked smaller. Not the hero that led their troops, not the whooping wild thing that leapt from the battlements barefoot and laughing. Just a woman, tired and torn, chest heaving and cum still drying in her hair and dripping down her thighs. Broken. A thousand old familiar nightmares crashed into him at once, memories of demons and illusions and scars and—

His sword dropped from his hands; mercifully, the thud of metal on wood jerked him away from his old ghosts. Only the softest involuntary whimper, the slightest tremor, betrayed his thoughts. When he looked down, he saw her staff. He bent down slowly, numb fingers closing around the wood shaft, and stepped closer to her.

“Inquisitor, I'm here,” Cullen breathed. “You're safe now.” He took one halting step toward her, her staff outstretched in one hand, reaching out with his other hand to wipe a tear from her cheek.

“Do not touch me, Templar,” she snapped, her fingers shaking wildly as snatched her staff from his grasp. Her voice was hoarse and unfamiliar, not the bright lilt he had grown to cherish so dearly, and he flinched back from the force of her stammered words. “Do not touch me, do not, do not—”

And then she collapsed. He caught her just in time, inches from the floor, and wrapped her up in his tight grasp. He was too late to protect her—a stomach-churning, earth-shattering, agonizing realization—but Maker take him, he would never let her go again, not if he could help it. He could feel her slight body shaking with sobs, and tears sprang up in his own eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, voice trembling. He traced hesitant circles on her back, his touch feather-soft, and rocked her slowly in his arms. “I'm so, so sorry. We were late.”

The words rung empty, hollow, but they were all he could manage. His tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth; his chest ached with the weight of all the thoughts he could not form into words. He felt Cassandra drape a thick blanket over his shoulders, glimpsed through teary eyes the sight of her hands as she tugged the blanket around the Inquisitor's bare, trembling body, but the rest of the world seemed to disappear into nothingness.

The Inquisitor was still but for her shaking, silent but for each pained breath. He felt too big and too clumsy with his arms around her and his hands ghosting over her back. She was still rigid—stiff and strange, as if his touch was unfamiliar. As if they were strangers. His stomach twisted at the thought. He pressed one faint kiss to the top of her head, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

At last, an eternity later, he felt her arms slip around his waist. He held her closer and murmured a thousand promises into her ear, and they sat there until a new day dawned.


End file.
